


Sweet surprise

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Baking, Compelling kisses, Cookies, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e13 Murder Under the Mistletoe, F/M, filling in the blanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: ‘He knew what was on that Christmas card. He’d written the words just last night, as he’d sat at his kitchen table, well on his way to a hangover. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now?’After the events that transpired at the chalet in Murder under the Mistletoe, and prior to the Christmas in July-celebration, Phryne visits Jack at home. There’s baked goods in here, too!





	Sweet surprise

**Author's Note:**

> I know it’s supposed to be March, but over here we are still skating across the canals. I was baking cookies, and this happened. I often wondered what kind of gift Jack would bestow upon Phryne at Christmas, and what occurred during the days between their return home and the celebration. I hope this fits the bill.

_‘The pleasure lies not in the cookies, but in the pattern the crumbs make when the cookies crumble.’_

— Michael Korda

_‘Today I will live in the moment, unless it’s unpleasant, in which case I will eat a cookie.’_

— Cookie Monster

 

Phryne huffed in indignation. She’d rung the doorbell at the front door thrice, only to find out it was broken. Lovely. Then, she’d knocked, to no avail.

Really, where was a man like Jack if not at home during one of the coldest days in July? She tugged her deep red coat closer to her body. She knew he had the day off, he’d told her so yesterday after their return home from the chalet in the Australian Alps. He’d personally escorted everyone home for safety, including dear Hugh, before heading home himself. Naturally, she’d protested profusely and he’d ignored her.

Dear Jack. Always thinking of others before he thought of his own well-being. He was the one with the – albeit none too serious – head wound, yet he was the one taking care of everyone else.

Upon her return into the warm fold that was Wardlow, and nourishing a rather large whisky in her parlour, she’d decided to throw a party, a Christmas in July-celebration, in order to celebrate Jane’s return, Christmas and life in general. Was there ever not a reason to celebrate life?

She’d longed for a reason to invite Jack back to her home and this was the perfect occasion. He was a dear friend, a respected colleague, but most of all; he mystified her, he intrigued her. After the Sanderson case, and that late night visit, she was ready to carefully peel back a few more of his buttoned-up layers.

Metaphorically speaking. But only just.

He’d come to her that night, without armour, with nothing but ardour. With _amour_ , perhaps? He’d terrified her, and she’d both blessed and condemned Aunt P’s timing, but her innate curiosity made her want to see more of that Jack.

Sighing, she stepped back, weighing her options on his front porch. She’d been here before, once, at his Richmond cottage, to drop off a few case files she’d borrowed (alright, purloined) from his office. Her infamous patience had failed her after ringing the doorbell twice, and she’d crouched down in front of the keyhole with her trustworthy lockpick in hand, when the door had swung open, an amused Jack standing in the doorway.

Not wishing to relive that smugness all over again – and because it was quite nippy out – she decided to opt for the back door.

 

***

 

“Jack!” she exclaimed in cheer by way of greeting him, breezing in through his unlocked kitchen door and taking off her fur hat. It was lovely and warm in here, she noted, as she shut the door behind her and loosened the fastenings on her coat.

The aforementioned Jack apparently had been startled by the sound of her voice – as he had been in the process of lighting his gas oven with a match, bent down at the waist to successfully locate the outlet – and hit his head against the top of the oven with a muffled thump.

He uttered an expletive that she hadn’t heard used since the war. She shivered slightly, and it wasn’t due to the cold winter air.

That man’s deep voice was sin incarnate, but to hear him curse...

As he straightened himself, she took a moment to take in her surroundings. During her previous visit, she hadn’t been allowed any further than the hallway. The kitchen itself was small, and at the back of the house, the door leading into the well-kept garden. There was an old gas stove, a Metters’, similar to the one they used to own back in Collingwood, but this one was far nicer. It wasn’t as fancy as the cabinet-style one she had in her kitchen at Wardlow, but the rustic quality of the appliance suited him.

This whole kitchen suited him; it breathed Jack. There were a few potted plants and herbs in the windowsill. There was an icebox, a simple, wooden cabinet – in which she presumed he kept his plates and cutlery – and some cupboards overhead. Books were pretty much in every tiny nook and available cranny. A sturdy table was set in the centre of the relatively small room, with two chairs. Half of the table was covered in files and paperwork, the other half had a baking tray and ingredients on it. On the baking tray, she noted with endeared amusement, were cut-out unbaked cookies in the shape of a Christmas tree.

It was all wonderfully cosy and awfully domestic, and as she took it all in, the scent of vanilla – and was that a hint of ginger? – hit her.

“Jack, are you… _baking_?”

She so enjoyed a good, hearty meal, but she simply loved baked goods and desserts. She could spend an entire day in bed, eating nothing but cakes and sweet confections. She had done so, once, in fact. And hadn’t there been a Spanish equilibrist and a can of whipped cream in there, somewhere?

Oh well, no matter.

“Feeding the ducks, actually,” he deadpanned, and she had to hold back a snort at his dry delivery.

But oh, was he a sight!

He was wearing light beige woollen trousers, similar to the ones he’d worn to the chalet. A white, stained apron had been secured at his waist and his hair was a delicious, dishevelled mess. A navy sweater – the colour of which complimented the blues in his eyes – with rolled up sleeves, and insofar as she could tell from the lack of a collar; no shirt. No shoes, either. For some reason, seeing him in just his socks made her belly somersault.

_Really, Phryne?_

And was that flour on his left cheek?

She wanted to lick it off, and had to fight back the impulse.

He was rubbing the back of his head with his hand, hissing quietly in annoyed surprise when he evidently came upon another small bump.

“That does look quite painful,” she commented, and she felt truly sorry for having caused him bodily harm, especially after yesterday’s occurrences.

“Is that your professional, clinical observation, Nurse Fisher?” he grumbled, though he didn’t seem genuinely annoyed at finding her in his kitchen. She knew what Jack at his most vexed looked like, and this wasn’t it. Surprised, yes, and in mild pain, certainly, but he appeared to be more worried about the state of his home, rather than her unannounced presence in it.

He quickly turned back around to close the oven door, before washing his hands at the sink and raking a hand through his tousled hair, groaning again when he forgot about his injury in his state of slight discomfort at her being here.

In his home.

And it was a mess.

Hell, he looked a mess, but she didn’t seem to disapprove of his appearance. If anything, she’d—

“You know Jack, you really do have the worst luck when it comes to getting hit on the head,” she stated, steadfastly ignoring his question with her usual flair, pulling back a wooden chair from his kitchen table and gesturing towards it. She took off her coat and hung it over the back of the second chair.

“And yet somehow, you’re always nearby when it happens,” he muttered. “Really, Miss Fisher, this is hardly necessary. I’m sure even you can’t have done me any worse than getting clubbed by a gun.”

He was actually unsure of the validity of that statement, but he untied his apron all the same, hanging it up on its hook next to the stove.

“Oh hush, it’s the least I can do,” she said, and he sat down dejectedly at the table, facing away from her.

Somehow, her statement didn’t reassure him, but he was glad she’d settled for something relatively innocent.

He just had to ignore the fact that they were alone, in his kitchen. Or the fact that he was fairly certain he could feel her breasts brush against the back of his head on occasion as she examined his scalp. His hands tightened on his thighs.

Phryne was brushing her fingers through his loose curls with care. His hair was fine and soft, and it smelled faintly of sandalwood and rosemary. She wanted to bury her nose in his hair, yet felt ridiculous for wanting to do so. She quickly located the previous head wound and was pleased to note it was healing up nicely. She winced at the tiny bump next to it, soothing it with her fingertips, but knowing that too would disappear within a couple of days time. She was now simply tracing nonsensical patterns across his head, staring off into space, imagining an entirely different context. Her nipples tightened in sweet anticipation.

She’d fallen remarkably quiet.

“Miss Fisher?”

“Did you know your doorbell is broken?”

“Would you have used it if it hadn’t been?”

“Why, of course!”

He rather doubted it. 

“You could have knocked.”

“I did, until my knuckles were sore.” He could practically hear the fake pout in that statement.

“I meant at the kitchen door.”

“Then how would I have surprised you?”

“Yes, you’re quite the prevaricating piñata, aren’t you?”

That comment earned him a sharp tug at his hair as she omitted a little thing called the Hippocratic Oath.

“ _Jesus_ , woman!” His hands grabbed hold of the edge of the table.

“Now, will you behave?” she asked, yet she found his behaviour rather stimulating. Their fight for dominance would no doubt continue behind closed doors, if they were to ever arrive there in the first place.

“Did you bestow the same soft touch upon all of your other patients?” he all but growled at her. He realised his slip – even though he’d not been aiming for any double entendre – when the words were already out of his mouth, hanging between them.

“Would you like to find out, Jack?” she purred in his ear, pleased to note the shiver that ran up his spine.

“I don’t think I’d survive, Miss Fisher.”

 

***

 

In ushering him into a chair, some of the papers and ingredients on the table had moved, causing a few bits and pieces to fall onto the tiled kitchen floor. One piece in particular caught her keen eye.

“Jack?”

Her hands had at long last stilled upon his shoulders.

“Yes, Miss Fisher?” She grinned at his exasperation.

Why had she not yet removed her hands?

“Who are you baking all of these cookies for?” she inquired, and he was content with this innocent line of questioning.

Good, the hands were gone. Was she...bending down?

“Oh, uh, my next-door neighbour’s daughter, you see. They’re coming over tomorrow afternoon and I thought it would be nice to have something for tea,” he lied through his teeth, glad he wasn’t facing her.

“Ah, I see. And did you write a nice card for them to go with the cookies, as well?” she all but purred in his ear, holding an envelope in front of him, dangling it more like it. It had her name on it, in his scrawny handwriting.

_How in the hell did she—_

He made a futile attempt to take the envelope from her dainty hand, but she snatched it and dashed away from him, out of his reach, a wicked smirk upon her face. God, but she was a vision in a flurry of reds and creams.

“Now Jack, you can either tell me who those cookies are _really_ for, or I’ll read this out loud,” she teased, already suspecting but wanting to hear him say it all the same.

“I told you already. Now hand it over,” he grunted, glaring at her for good measure, holding out his hand as he stood. She noticed it still had some flour on it. She wanted him to mark her with it. He was using his authoritarian voice, and it made her inner muscles clench in sudden admonishment.

He knew what was on that Christmas card. He’d written the words just last night, as he’d sat at his kitchen table, well on his way to a hangover. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now? Now, he was terrified, mortified that she might read what his drunken stupor had written down, the fear of almost losing her still fresh when he’d jotted the words down.

He’d come close to kissing her not too long ago, had been tempted to spend the night in her room only a few nights ago, but he still felt all too conflicted.

“Come now, Jack. We both know that your neighbours are old Mrs. Hannigan and that grumpy man who always yells at the children to get off his lawn,” she replied haughtily and looking quite smug about it.

“ _I_ know that, Miss Fisher, the question is; how do _you_?”

“Detective, remember?”

He sighed in defeat, and she grinned in victory. Her celebration was short-lived, however, when she noticed the solemn expression on his face.

He spoke in soft tones, and she almost had to strain to hear him.

“I was going to bake them for you, Phryne. After—after all that everyone’s been through these past few days, I thought that—I just wanted to do something. For you. Well, not _just_ for you...I wasn’t sure what to get you, and baking always helps to clear my head. But cookies are hardly a proper gift, and—”

He was stumbling, stuttering, and she found it adorable. Her heart clenched at his honesty, at his use of her first name, at his dear and kind offer. She didn’t want any grand gestures from him. These small signs of his affection meant so much more to her.

She closed the distance between them in his small kitchen, not touching him but for the gentle hand upon his cheek, her thumb brushing away the flour.

“Jack, I’d love that. Thank you.” Her voice was almost a whisper, emotions suddenly taking a strong hold of her vocal chords.

They stood like that for what seemed like years, before he found his voice.

“Was there any specific reason for you to barge into my kitchen unannounced?” he teased, though her hand was terribly distracting. Fortunately, his question appeared to jump-start her memory, and she lowered her hands.

“Oh, yes! I wanted to invite you to my Christmas in July-celebration, this Saturday,” she announced. “And bring those delicious-looking cookies with you.” She turned away from him to grab her coat from the back of the chair, putting it on.

“And what’s in that for me?” It was a bold move, but he so enjoyed rattling her, ruffling her immaculate feathers. Naturally, she accepted his challenge with her usual aplomb.

Her eyelids drooped slightly as she moved closer to him still, until their bodies were almost touching. He could smell her perfume through the haze of vanilla and biscuit-ingredients.

“A kiss, now, in exchange for one of your lovely _confections_?” she smouldered, her eyes on his lips unmistakable in their intent.

“I’m not sure my kisses can be that easily compelled, Miss Fisher,” he rasped, denying her and breaking the spell.

“Poppycock,” she grumbled. Really, when was this man _finally_ going to kiss her?!

Jack merely raised an eyebrow at that.

“Oh, I know!” she exclaimed suddenly, and before he had time to react, she’d clasped his face between her hands and was rubbing her delicate (but slightly cold) little nose against his. His face scrunched up in surprise and she had the audacity to snigger.

“It’s an Eskimo’s kiss, Jack! Isn’t it lovely? And very appropriate, considering the weather,” she declared, and her face lit up in such a beaming smile that he couldn’t help but shake his head, chuckling softly.

He was still smirking in disbelief at her, therefore he almost missed the way her hands had dropped to stroke the soft material of his jumper, gently massaging his shoulders to come and rest upon his chest.

He shivered with desire. She noticed, and she raised her eyes to his.

“You know Jack, the Eskimos also say that skin-to-skin contact is the best way to stay warm,” she purred as her fingers teased the hem of his sweater, confirming her earlier suspicions about the lack of a shirt.

“Miss Fisher...,” he warned, though it lacked any real threat as he noticed her devious smirk.

Leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek – innocent enough, but pressing just a tad too long for it to have been completely meaningless – before handing him back his envelope. She moved towards his kitchen door and picked up her hat from the table, her hand on the handle.

“Knowing your never-ending quest for answers, my own curiosity compels me to ask you; don’t you want to know?” he asked in gravelly tones, trying to recover from what seemed like a continuing onslaught designed to destroy his already frayed nerves.

“No Jack, I prefer my never-ending source of mystery. Surprise me,” she declared with a smile, before walking out of his kitchen door, her hips swaying deliberately.

“Merry Christmas in July, Jack! Bring the cookies!”

The door fell shut with an audible click, ricocheting off the walls.

 _My never-ending source of mystery_ , she’d said. _Hers._

Shaken, he sat down at his table, opening the envelope with her name on it.

 

_My dearest Phryne,_

_Not always._

_Jack._

**Author's Note:**

> *munches on cookies


End file.
